


age of alfred

by iwritetrash



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Age of Adaline AU, Eventual Happy Ending, Grief/Mourning, Immortality, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 19:18:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13488078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwritetrash/pseuds/iwritetrash
Summary: He tries not to dwell too much on the past. It doesn’t hold much joy. In a mortal world, it’s dreadful, really, to lose everyone he ever comes to care about, which is why, sometime in the 6th Century, when King Arthur was a man and not a legend, he decided to stop. He made a plan for himself: he would move every twenty years and take on a new identity, in a new part of the country, or maybe even another country, and the man he was before would cease to exist.~Alfred, for whatever reason, is immortal, and finds that the years are less than kind to him.





	age of alfred

**Author's Note:**

> heavily inspired by age of adaline, but with quite a few plot deviations, as opposed to a direct copy. it's also quite alfred-centric in that edward doesn't come into the mix until like 2/3 of the way through. i didn't mean to focus on alfred so much, but i'm really invested in his character and i can't help it, so this happened.
> 
> anyway, i hope you like it!

Alfred has been running for so long he hardly remembers where it all began. He’s lived a million lifetimes, taken a million different names, lived in a million different places; it grows tiresome eventually. His age must be somewhere in the thousands by now; those early days are so hazy to him now that he hardly remembers if they were the 5th Century or the 10th if he’s being quite honest.

He tries not to dwell too much on the past. It doesn’t hold much joy. In a mortal world, it’s dreadful, really, to lose everyone he ever comes to care about, which is why, sometime in the 6th Century, when King Arthur was a man and not a legend, he decided to stop. He made a plan for himself: he would move every twenty years and take on a new identity, in a new part of the country, or maybe even another country, and the man he was before would cease to exist. 

It works, for the most part, but one can’t help but get attached from time to time. Alfred has always been one to wear his heart on his sleeve, try as he might to swaddle it in armour and chainmail to protect himself; his heart has been broken more than once.

In an attempt to combat his loneliness, Alfred has a cat, Wilhelmina XII, named after one of the greatest women he ever knew, who has come with him from a past life to his current one. He also has Harriet, who suffers from the same affliction as him. She is, perhaps, his one true companion in the world. The only person who understands what it is like to forever feel alone.

He had met her at the beginning of the 19th Century, when he was still reeling from his own heartbreak, while Harriet fashioned her own in the form of an affair with a German Duke. They had discovered each other quite by accident, after Alfred shared a story which he was supposedly 100 years too young to know. A swift friendship had formed not long after.

Though several centuries younger than Alfred, Harriet was almost certainly wiser; her one foible, however, was much the same as Alfred’s: falling in love. She had married the German Duke with whom she had fallen in love, and spent ten years with him, though she had never been able to give him children, before people began to ask questions. In the end, she had run from him in the middle of the night, intending it to be a kindness to them both, taking a new name and fleeing to France with Alfred, where he had helped her to fix her broken heart.

Despite it all, however, Harriet still talks of those beautiful golden days, and tells Alfred she doesn’t regret a moment of it, not even leaving. Alfred wonders how that can possibly be true.

He has had his fair share of love affairs and broken hearts, more than Harriet by far. When he was still young, before he realised his own disorder, he had married a woman named Wilhelmina. It was not until much later that he had realised his interests lay with men, but Wilhelmina had been kind, and good, and she had loved him, even when they found themselves unable to have children, despite their best efforts.

As time had passed, Alfred had begun to notice the wrinkles on her face, the grey hairs threading through blonde, while he remained unchanged, exactly as he was when he had first met her. Horrified, he had run from their home without so much as saying goodbye, and had only returned later to find that, with no husband and no children to care for her, Wilhelmina had fallen sick and passed away a month or so after he left. 

The guilt had lodged in his throat as he remembered the lovely woman who had married him, and how cruelly he had abandoned her. He understands now what he is, and he wishes he could have reversed the clock and surrendered Wilhelmina to a better man who could have cared for her the way he ought to have.

~

A hundred years or so passed of Alfred attempting to live life as normal, and ending up in a perpetual state of grief when he developed affection for someone who died all too soon. Human lives are so fleeting, when he is faced with all of eternity in front of him; time had begun to lose its meaning, since it had no effect on him, and yet the heartbreak it caused remained ever present.

It was at that point that he told himself he must stop. To love is to open oneself up to heartbreak, he had told himself, and, in a life as long as his, heartbreak must be kept to a minimum. He left England in search of a better life, took a new name, and forced himself to move on.

~

It was sometime in the 10th Century when Alfred found himself in France, where he was going by Adam, where he broke his promise for the first time. He met a man named Antoine, who was attractive, and charming, and who taught Alfred of what he called ‘a Greek style of love’. It had been nothing like what Alfred had with Wilhelmina, not in the slightest.

Where his relationship with Wilhelmina had been sweet and affectionate, his relationship with Antoine was permeated with love and lust; for the first time Alfred felt truly alive, in a way he hadn’t even felt when he was young and thought himself in love with Wilhelmina, which he realised now was not the case.

He had spent some five years with Antoine before the questions started; how had Alfred not changed even slightly, not even gaining laughter lines on his face as they years passed? Antoine had not believed Alfred’s answers that he simply aged well, and, in the end, Alfred had been forced to make himself disappear. He told Antoine he had been called back to England for family matters, then left for Spain, because he knew Antoine wouldn’t look for him there. 

He spent one hundred years or so there, before tiring of the weather and returning to England, where he found much had changed while he was away. Still, he was able to find himself a small corner of the country to retreat to, keeping his promise to move as often as possible. With time, his heartbreak faded, as did his memories of Antoine’s smell, and his voice, and eventually his face, until he exists as nothing more than an abstract blur in Alfred’s mind.

~

Alfred travelled. It was an easy enough way to keep his mind off of his seemingly infinite future, and a good way to keep himself from getting attached or giving himself away. He had gone through more names than he can count, and eventually he found himself forced to repeat them, but he never returned to Alfred, even though he hadn’t gone by that name since the 5th Century, for fear it might reveal him.

He had found himself in Florence as the Renaissance began, and had taken the name of Arthur, deciding to settle in for the cultural explosion which was occurring around him. It was there, at the start of the 16th Century that he met Matteo, a 25-year-old painter who chose Alfred as his muse the very first time they met. It was a relationship Alfred would later compare to that of Basil and Dorian, though perhaps less dysfunctional and more romantic.

He had tried not to fall in love with Matteo, he truly had, but when he spent every day in Matteo’s studio with those dark eyes inspecting every single line of his body he found he had fallen quite without realising it. Matteo had reciprocated, and before Alfred could second-guess himself, he was telling Matteo everything. He hadn’t been sure what it was about the man that made Alfred so willing to share the secret he had kept ever since he had first come to understand it, but soon enough his secret was out in the open to be judged by his lover.

Instead of the shock Alfred had expected, Matteo had kissed Alfred’s forehead and said he expected as much; a man so perfect could not possibly be human, he had said, before picking up his paintbrush and asking Alfred to resume his position so that he might continue.

Matteo had been the first person to truly know Alfred, and to accept him in his entirety, and it felt… good. It was the happiest Alfred had ever been, which of course meant it couldn’t last. Eventually Matteo aged, and with age came bitterness that he could not remain forever youthful like Alfred; His fingers were not so nimble, and painting did not come so easily to him, and if he was no longer painting then Alfred was no longer his muse, just a beautiful man who looked exactly the same as he did the day they met.

Alfred saw how Matteo avoided looking at the two of them together in the mirror, because it looked like Alfred was half his age, and how his face contorted whenever Alfred brought up a story from before. He knew what it had meant.

Hardly three weeks later, Alfred packed his things and left in the middle of the night, leaving Matteo a note to apologise. He went back to England again, and spent the next decade drinking himself into a stupor every day, wasting his time in isolation. When he emerged, he realised that the country had been thrown into religious turmoil, most of which he had missed during his self-imposed confinement. Having changed monarch four times in 56 years, and changed religion three times, the country was hardly a pleasant place to be. Alfred had never cared much for any sort of religion, but he suspected he ought to go along with what the current queen dictated – he wasn’t sure his immortality would protect him from execution.

He decided to go by the name Alexander, and found himself an income as a writer. He was, by no means, excellent, but he was good enough to earn a little money, most of which he set aside in savings. He already had enough to get by from his previous lives, but he _needed_ some kind of occupation to keep him busy.

As time passed, Alfred settled into a routine. He moved every ten years, changed his name, got a cat named Wilhelmina, and continued writing, each time under a new name. He never had any enormous success, but he did well enough, and he was content. Not happy, but content.

Like with Antoine, eventually Matteo faded to a distant memory, though never quite forgotten. He passed several centuries following this routine, until some 300 years later, under another powerful queen, he met Harriet. 

She was like a lifeline, dragging him out of the rut he was stuck in, reminding him what it was like to have friends, and to connect with other people again. Alfred had been so focused on not allowing himself to get hurt that he had closed himself off entirely, not allowing himself to get close to anyone for fear of how things might end. Harriet had taught him not to dwell on such dismal endings.

When one is immortal, one can afford to spend a century in mourning, if that means they had a good few decades of happiness, she had told him. It had taken a while to adjust, of course – one does not change overnight – but, 100 years or so later, Alfred finally allowed himself to love again.

~

He had met Jack in 1912 in New York City, having just returned from Paris where he had been staying with Harriet, helping her mend her broken heart. They had met in a bar for ‘people like them’, and Jack had been cocky, but he also genuine, and so, with Harriet’s words echoing in his ears, Alfred had offered to buy him a drink.

He introduced himself as Albert, biting his tongue to stop himself saying Alfred, and Jack smiled, taken a drag on his cigarette, and said he’d always wanted to meet a brit. Things were good for a little while. They kept their relationship under wraps, something Alfred was quite experienced with by that point, and spent as much time as they could with each other. Then the war had come, and Jack had enlisted without thinking twice, while Alfred had stayed behind because he was terrified the medical exam might turn up something strange.

Jack didn’t come back the same. None of the men who went did.

At night Jack would thrash and scream, and when he woke up he would look at Alfred like he didn’t even know the man in bed beside him. Alfred stayed, even through the nights when Jack would wake up in a panic and point a gun right in Alfred’s direction, because, when all was quiet, and all was well, Jack was still that man Alfred met in a bar, and they could sit and have a cigarette together like they used to.

Alfred stayed for a long time, maybe 5 years or so without a single question, and he knew it was high time he moved on, because everyone around him thought he was 35 when he still looked like he was in his early 20s, but he couldn’t bring himself to go. Jack needed him, he had reminded himself.

Things had improved, slowly but surely, and the nightmares had become less frequent and less violent, and they still happened but Alfred knew what to do, and if Jack noticed that Alfred hadn’t aged, he didn’t say anything, and they lived in relative peace for a while.

And then one morning Alfred woke up and Jack wasn’t beside him.

He was in the bathroom, bent over the sink, coughing so hard there was blood coming up. When the coughing fit passed, Alfred asked if it had happened before, and Jack’s guilty silence was all the answer he needed. He had admitted to having similar fits for weeks, and Alfred had found himself wanting to cry because he had known something like this would happen eventually, but did it have to happen so soon? 

The doctor had only confirmed what Alfred already thought. Lung cancer. Aggressive. Probably caused by smoking. Not much to be done now but wait.

Jack deteriorated quickly after that. He hadn’t lasted much longer than a year, and by the end he had been little more than a shell of the man he was. Alfred’s heart ached to see the man he loved looking so small in a hospital bed, and yet he couldn’t even tell Jack he loved him as he faded away, because _someone might hear_.

Jack died with the summer of 1923, and Alfred left New York by the end of Autumn, having taking care of the necessary arrangements and set a course for England, where he knew Harriet would be waiting. He had sworn to her one night in the middle of winter that he had had his heart broken for the last time. _Never again_ , he had said through his tears. Never again would he give his heart away.

~

Just under a century later sees Alfred meeting Harriet in a busy café in Central London. It’s been a decade or so since they parted ways, and he’s going by Alfie, but Alfred finds he isn’t quite sure what to do with himself without her. It is while they’re eating that Alfred makes the mistake of mentioning a certain Elliot Dean, with whom he works at a local library. He really is quite gorgeous, all messy brown curls and dazzling smiles that leave Alfred a little breathless, and perhaps Harriet sees that dazed look in his eyes, because she teases him for it immediately.

Alfred stops her before she can even begin, reminding her of what happened last time he fell in love. _Never again_ , he had said, and he intends to stick to it.

“You’re too cynical, Alfred. We live lonely enough lives without you shutting yourself off. Need I remind you of the state you were in when I first met you?” Her tone is nonchalant, but when she looks up at Alfred her eyes settle into something a little more serious. “I know it hurts to lose someone, Alfred, trust me, but you can’t just cut yourself off forever.”

“Harriet-“

“No, Alfred, listen to me. This Elliot guy doesn’t have to be a long term thing, or a big commitment thing, he doesn’t even have to last the month if you don’t want, but if you like him then you should give it a try. Have a fling and enjoy yourself,” She mutters, spearing a piece of lettuce on her fork, “sometimes I think you’re too serious for your own good.”

“I don’t want to have a fling, Harriet,” Alfred sighs, “I’m old, and I’m tired, I’m so _tired_ of running, and what I _want_ is to settle down with someone, and get married, and have kids, and grow old with them. What I want, more than anything, is to be human, and to love someone and know it can last-“ Alfred sniffs, and wipes his eyes where a few tears have dripped onto his cheeks “-and know it can last my whole life.”

“Oh Alfred,” Harriet reaches out to place her hand over his, squeezing gently, “I know. But you can’t live your life afraid to be happy in case it doesn’t last forever.”

Alfred sniffs again, and takes the tissue Harriet offers him. She senses somehow that he is done with this topic of conversation, and quickly moves on to talk about how a gallery is buying some of her art, and of course she is having to initial it HW – Hannah Williams instead of Harriet Sutherland – but that’s no problem, because at least it means they like it…

When they part ways, Harriet pulls Alfred in for a tight hug, before whispering one last thing in his ear. “Give him a chance,” she says, before squeezing him tight one last time and then disappearing along the street in the direction of the nearest tube station.

Alfred gets Elliot’s number the next day, and asks if maybe he’d like to go out some time. Elliot looks almost ecstatic when he agrees, and Alfred feels his heart warm at the joy on Elliot’s face. _It doesn’t have to be forever_ , he tells himself, Harriet’s word ringing in his ears, _but it’s worth a shot_.

~

The next time Alfred and Harriet meet, six months later, Elliot has moved in and Alfred tells her that things are going well, that he’s decided to set aside his inhibitions about a new relationship and just try to be happy in the present, instead of thinking about the future, or dwelling on the past. She tells him she’s happy for him, and admits to having met someone new herself, for the first time since she left Ernest.

When Alfred gets home from his lunch with Harriet, Elliot is sat on their sofa with five passports laid out on the coffee table in front of him.

“I was going to surprise you with a trip to the states,” Elliot says, staring blankly at the passports in front of him, “you always talk about how much you liked New York, so I was going to book a trip there, but I couldn’t find your passport…”

“I can explain-“

“I would guess you were some kind of criminal mastermind, but the dates on the passports don’t match up in the right way.” Alfred really ought to give Elliot more credit, what with him being inches away from figuring it out by himself.

“Will you hear me out?” Alfred’s hands are shaking, and he doesn’t know why he’s so nervous because Elliot hasn’t freaked out and left yet, even though there’s a passport from the early 1900s sat on that table.

Elliot smiles, and Alfred can’t quite decipher what it means, and then he stands up and walks over to one of his boxes, which are still sitting, half-unpacked, in the living room, and pulls out another stack of passports and birth certificates, and various forms of identification. It’s even bigger than Alfred’s, and it’s enough to figure it out pretty quickly.

“My name is Edward Drummond. I was born in the 5th Century BC.” Alfred thinks he might have just gone into shock. How on earth is he supposed to react to this strange new information that ~~Elliot~~ Edward is like him, that Edward is _older_ than him. 

“My name is Alfred Paget,” he manages eventually, “I was born in the 5th Century AD.”

And, just like that, the floodgates open. Edward tells him everything about his life, about his time in Ancient Greece, about his friend, Florence, who is like them as well, about his travels across the world. Alfred tells Edward about his own life, and about Harriet, and they talk and reminisce and cry because suddenly the eternity ahead of them doesn’t look so bleak. Edward wonders aloud how they got so lucky as to be in the same place at the same time, to which Alfred responds that it took him damn long enough.

Alfred sits with Edward on their sofa in their tiny apartment, and they share stories, and, for the first time in Alfred’s too-long life, he finally, _finally_ , feels happy. 

**Author's Note:**

> look, i managed a happy ending for once! 
> 
> let me know if you liked this in the comments!


End file.
